


Circle Talk

by Lohrendrell



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Domesticity, Friendship/Love, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, POV Alternating, Queerplatonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29397177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lohrendrell/pseuds/Lohrendrell
Summary: In which Geralt talks in circles, Dandelion frets, and the lines between platonic and romantic get a bit blurry.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 54
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	Circle Talk

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the Geraskier Reverse Bang Event. Follow it on [Tumblr](https://geraskierreversebang.tumblr.com)!
> 
> My teammate Zacharie’s art inspired this fic. See the amazing art [here](https://zmezagain.tumblr.com/post/643030046712512512/another-piece-for-the), and go give them all the love! <3
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely Bee for being awesome at spinning ideas and beta’ing! 💜

“Where is he?”

The crowd clogged the entrance of the mayor’s house. Gossip floated around—a lifted curse, witchcraft, blue blood and a dead witcher.

“Where is he?” Dandelion asked again, only to be ignored, the morbid curiosity of those unhelpful shrieking over his worry.

He had to make his way through the commotion, bumping shoulders and stepping on feet until he spotted the witcher in question.

Plastered on the floor, paler than usual, white haired and covered in some kind of blue-colored, fetid guts, was Geralt. A healer was leaning over him, suturing a wound on his middle. Dandelion looked away for a moment, nauseated, before kneeling beside the witcher.

“Geralt,” he called, watching Geralt’s face, not touching.

Geralt was awake. His eyes were socketed, though, entirely black from one of his potions, shining with that distinct post-difficult hunt daze.

“Ugh,” Geralt grunted, but otherwise didn’t move.

“What did you get yourself into this time, stupid man?” Dandelion grumbled.

Geralt was watching him now, with those black-hollow eyes. His lips trembled. He was covered in blue.

“Shh, don’t talk,” Dandelion said, as softly as he could. “I’m here. I’ll just—” The healer’s clever hands appeared to be doing a good job with the wound. Dandelion didn’t want to watch it, so he averted his gaze. “I’ll collect your bounty. I’ll be right back.”

Geralt grunted again.

“I’ll be right back,” he assured again, touching Geralt’s wrist slightly. The witcher’s skin felt cold—colder than what Dandelion has ever felt, even after other hunts.

“I’ll be back,” he whispered one more time and went to find the mayor.

* * *

The Ekhidna wouldn’t have been such a problem—a well placed arrow from a safe distance and that was it—if it weren’t for the drowners. Dozens and dozens of them. Geralt had never seen or read anything like it. They appeared precisely whenever Geralt got too close or got the Ekhidna on his view; it was almost like they were being controlled, their little minions, protecting the creature from the threat.

 _I should note it down,_ Geralt thought. His head swirled, his thoughts were foggy, his vision blurred—all the effects of Kiss.

He didn’t know exactly how he made his way back from the hunt, how he escaped the Ekhidna’s claws. He had vague memories of slicing it in half, but not before the creature sliced _him_. The smell of drowner guts filled his nostrils, making the dizziness even worse, and he knew the source of that foul smell was himself.

“There you are,” someone said beside him. _Dandelion_. “Thought you’d sleep for a fortnight. Who would listen to my most inspired poetry then, hm?”

“Where—” Geralt tried to say. His voice was raspy, his mouth dry. He coughed.

“There, there.”

Geralt felt Dandelion approaching, and then a cup of fresh water against his lips. He drank what he was given eagerly.

“We’re at the mayor’s cottage,” Dandelion was saying. “He agreed to let us stay here while you recover—two, maybe three days at most? I bargained for a week. I’ll have to perform at his daughter’s birthday, of course. Nothing harmful in that, I’ll sneak us some free food.”

“You don’t have to,” Geralt said, voice still a little raspy.

“Of course I don’t! What do you peg me for, delusional? I won’t pass the opportunity to learn the dirty goodies of this small town, though. And if a lush marchioness, with plump lips, and recently widowed, feels the need for some company, well, I won’t pass up the opportunity for romance.”

“Already got your eyes on some noble lady,” Geralt said. Not a question.

“Not really. I just got into this town to find a wave of gossip about a dead witcher. Didn’t think of any maidens, widowed or not, before I got to you.” He sat down beside Geralt, who only now realized he had been on the floor. “I got your fee, though, so no need to worry about that.” He patted the back of Geralt’s hand twice.

Sight still affected by Kiss, the bright lights of the candles blinded Geralt for a moment as he perused the interior. The small cottage lent to them was made of only a room with a small door separating the potty chamber. Small but cozy, and from most places standards, also luxurious. Certainly for this town's standards. It was no wonder Dandelion still had to work for it—Geralt’s contract didn’t cover a resting place after the deed was done.

Dandelion didn’t need to be asked to notice what Geralt was thinking. “There’s only one bed, I didn’t want to sully the bedsheets that the mayor _very kindly_ let us keep with this—” he gestured towards Geralt “—what is this, anyway? You never reeked so bad, not that I’ve seen. Or, well… smelled.”

“Ekhidna,” Geralt said, voice low. He coughed once, but it didn’t make it that much better. “And drowners. Several. Note that down, will you?”

Dandelion got up, reaching for his notebook, and did as he was told, flipping to the last pages of the notebook, as was his custom when noting down whatever. “That’s what took you so long?” he asked. “The mayor said he expected you to be dead already, it had been days since you set up on the hunt. You’re not hurt, are you? I mean—” he gestured towards Geralt again “—more than you already look? No internal injuries? No need for a more experienced healer, maybe a mage?”

“I’m…” Geralt started. He hadn’t been hurt—not too bad, at least. Nothing that wouldn’t feel better in the morning. Physically, at least. “I’m tired, Dandelion,” he admitted. “I need to rest,” he said. “And eat.”

“Of course you do,” Dandelion said, closing his notebook and throwing it carelessly on the medium-sized bed on one corner of the room. “Why don’t you get on the bathtub over there, hm? I had it filled for you, but it must be cold by now. Perhaps you can warm it for yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Good. The mayor promised us dinner tonight. I’ll go get it. Go soak a little, old man.”

“Dandelion.”

“Yes, Geralt?”

“Did you carry me here?” He remembered the hunt, the Ekhidna, the several, several drowners. He didn’t remember walking into the city.

“I found you in the mayor’s house, passed out, bleeding everywhere. I had the servants bring you here.”

Whistling some new melody Geralt hadn’t heard yet, Dandelion left. Geralt took small steps toward the bathtub, taking off his clothes as he went. With a bit of effort, he warmed the water enough with the sign of Igni. His clothes went first, immediately painting the transparent water in the deep blue that was typical of drowner blood. The Ekhidna hadn’t gotten close enough to stain his clothes as well, and given the predicament he’d just escaped, Geralt supposed it was a positive balance.

His Kiss-enhanced eyes watched as the water changed colors. He reached for the soap Dandelion had left next to the tub, and quickly cleaned the fabric with some well placed, but far from enthusiastic scrubs. He hanged them on the back of a chair after twisting off the excess of water, and then entered the tub.

He sighed when the warm water enveloped his entire body. Tired as he was, it almost felt like it was reaching his bones, warming him up completely. The tub wasn’t big enough for him to stretch his legs, but it was fine. It was the best he’d had in… months, probably.

* * *

Geralt had been dozing when Dandelion returned with their food. The witcher didn’t awake when he made his way into the cottage, which was the biggest testament of his true condition. Dandelion had been whistling, not only not bothered about being loud, but being purposefully so. He knew how much Geralt appreciated not being startled with sudden company, even more so when his elixirs still were in effect. Geralt’s mind always became a little hazy under the effect of his witcher potions, a little feral, constantly on guard until tiredness knocked him out, sometimes for more than a day.

Geralt did startle when Dandelion put the two plates in the tiny table across the room.

“Come on now, relax. It’s just me. No need to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Geralt grumbled.

“Didn’t I scare you?”

“No.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“No.”

Dandelion chuckled. “Liar.”

“Don’t enjoy yourself too much.”

“It’s not often a poet gets to scare people. We usually elicit all kinds of emotions, such as love, passionate yearning for a fulfilling and exciting life. But not fear. You can’t possibly be asking me to not relish on the fact I was terrifying, however brief the moment was.”

“Give me that,” Geralt growled, ignoring him. He didn’t have to indicate the plates with food for Dandelion to know what he meant. Dandelion fed him a piece of chicken before taking one for himself.

“Is it any good?” Dandelion asked, adjusting the chair where Geralt had hanged his clothes closer to the window, to dry faster where it was windier and where the sunlight hit first in the morning.

“Mm,” Geralt answered under a mouthful. Dandelion placed a bottle of wine, courtesy of the manor’s chef (behind the mayor’s back, he was pretty sure; she was a delightful old lady), on Geralt’s lips, letting him drink a few gulps.

“Well, that was a very pleasant man—the mayor, I mean,” Dandelion said, “if you count ignorant buffoonery as a form of pleasantry, that is. Lack of fulfilling bed partners, if you ask my opinion.”

Geralt asked, “What did he say? Before, when you found me?”

Dandelion waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t worry about it. Something about wanting the monster’s head as a guarantee of a job well done. I told him how dangerous drowners and dragons and botchlings and all these little creatures you deal with are, and I said it wasn’t possible to carry one’s head around like that—“

“There was no botchling or dragon.”

“—and after—I know, I know. I was just—” Dandelion gestured towards nothing, “—making my point, you know how these things are. So anyway, after some back and forth, in which my wits outweighed his, might I add, he finally agreed to pay the whole sum agreed, and to feed us, as was promised. Here’s your money, by the way.” Dandelion took a little pouch full of coins from a pocket, placing it on the table next to the food.

“Grab your notebook,” Geralt said from the bathtub. “Note this down, will you?”

“Again?”

“Yes, again. I need to document this, send it to Vesemir. Never seen anything like it.”

The seriousness of Geralt’s expression made Dandelion pause for just a second. He then reached for his notebook once more and, sitting on the other chair that had been left by the table, proceeded to note down every detail of this hunt.

Geralt had always enjoyed telling his tales about his hunts—not one to boast about his own prowess, he enjoyed recapitulating with Dandelion all the events that made him think (or angst) about the general state of life and everything else. Dandelion usually humoured him, both because he was somewhat fascinated by the nature of a witcher’s trade, and because he enjoyed letting Geralt talk himself out. The thoughtful exchanges following these tales had been fuel to ballads more than once—Dandelion could make a whole circle by now with them.

Geralt usually left behind the most gruesome details, though. Tactics, booby-traps, bestiary knowledge—Dandelion had never been interested in those. Tonight, however, he told everything in details: how he found the Ekhidna’s nest, how he kept being constantly attacked by the little creatures from the waters, how it seemed the monster every piece of literature had ever deemed unintelligent, tonight seemed not only aware of everything, but _wise_. The poet wrote everything down, with increasing disgust and fascination.

And apprehension.

“You could have been killed.” Dandelion’s voice was a whisper, but still the words felt heavy in his breath.

Geralt said nothing.

“Well.” Dandelion closed his notebook, perhaps a bit too harshly than necessary, and got up abruptly. “No need dwelling on that. You’re alive, you’re here, you’re—what in all the godsdamned seven curses are you doing?”

Geralt looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean ‘what am I doing’? I’m taking a bath, what does it look like?”

“In _that_? Geralt, the water is blue. Not beautiful blue like pearls under the fading stars of the first sunlight, blue as in… that thing all over your body earlier.”

“Drowner blood.”

“Drowner blood, yes. Good gods, old man, why didn’t you rinse off outside or something before getting in the tub? Now you’re soaking in monster guts!”

Geralt said nothing, only stared at Dandelion with those black eyes. Enough time had passed for Geralt’s sight to improve considerably—the hollow blackness was diminishing, the hint of golden slowly appearing behind it.

Dandelion placed his hands on his hips. “Well?”

“What?” Geralt asked.

“What’s gotten to you?” Dandelion asked.

“Nothing.”

“Don’t _nothing_ me. I know when something’s up, witcher, you can’t fool me.”

“I’m just… I’m just tired.”

“Well, that much is obvious. Still no reason to soak in, in—in monster guts. Ugh.”

“What are you doing?”

“Helping you, of course.”

Dandelion reached for the small bucket of water—another testament of how Geralt’s mind had been clouded by his potions; he didn’t notice the second bucket by the corner of the room. Dandelion had to contain a shudder at the thought of Geralt being so unaware of everything and left by himself in that state.

He unceremoniously dumped half a bucket’s worth of fresh water on Geralt’s head. The blue goo all over his hair immediately started to melt, dripping on the dirtied water of the bathtub.

“There you go,” Dandelion said, “much better. Don’t you feel better already?”

Geralt didn’t answer. When he started to vigorously—almost violently—scrub at his head with his own hands like a brute, Dandelion gently pried Geralt’s hands away.

“Let me,” he said, as softly as he could. He reached for the soap and the simple washcloth that had been sitting together near the tub.

“You don’t have to,” Geralt protested weakly, even as he let Dandelion move him however around.

“I know I don’t. Still. Let me.”

Geralt let him.

Dandelion didn’t comment on the little sigh that escaped Geralt’s lips when he got more comfortable in the bathtub, Dandelion’s fingers carefully scrubbing at the witcher’s scalp.

Sometimes silence was more powerful than even the most heart wrenching rhymes. Every poet who deemed themselves dignified was aware of that.

* * *

Geralt must have dozed off yet again while Dandelion washed his hair. He came to himself with the soft humming, the poet’s warm breath tingling the cold skin of his shoulders.

Geralt’s throat tightened.

He swallowed hard.

“What is it?” Dandelion asked, in that gentle tone of his he always used in _those_ moments. Moments like this one, when there were just the two of them, the air around them heavy with the unspoken that permeated the whole… _this_ that they had.

Geralt was usually pretty good with words, though not as much of a poet as Dandelion. He could spin words for hours, letting his mind wander with the questions and the need to have them answered. Dandelion called it _grumpy philosophy_ ; Geralt just called it having thoughts. It just came naturally for him.

And yet, when it came to Dandelion, to _this_ , Geralt found himself at a loss for words.

“What’s that scent?” he asked instead of answering.

“Citronela. An exotic plant native of Vicovaro. I’ve been told this soap has special properties that repel mosquitoes at night. Do you like it?”

“...Yes.”

“I thought you would. Anyone would. I spent a small fortune on this a couple of months back, been saving it for the right moment to use it.”

Geralt swallowed dry again at the thought that _he_ was part of the right moment to use the special soap. That Dandelion, known for his self-fulfilling impulsiveness, saved something that he then deemed good enough to use with _Geralt_.

“Since when do you have any self control? And how did you get all the money for that?”

“My darling at the time, the Marchioness of Ganbury, sponsored me.”

“Meaning you stole her money,” Geralt deadpanned.

“I did not! I just. Just pleasured her so much I thought it would be fair just to treat myself, that’s all.”

“Scoundrel.”

“Don’t insult me.” Dandelion pinched and pulled Geralt’s ear. His slippery fingers didn’t manage to actually get a hold of Geralt’s ear enough to draw actual pain. “Bastard.”

“Whoremonger.”

“Well, aren’t we classy today,” Dandelion said dryly. “Better than a couple of hours ago at least, I must say.”

Geralt smirked. With a quick movement of his hand, he splashed some water behind him. Just a few drops, really, but enough to make Dandelion shriek.

“Geralt, ew! That’s how you thank me for taking care of you, you old rascal?”

Geralt chuckled. He watched as Dandelion fretted over his now stained doublet, taking it off to wash immediately. The entire time, he cursed at Geralt’s lack of sensibility when it came to expensive suits and the very existence of drowners.

It flew right past Geralt’s ears—all he could think of when he observed Dandelion’s prissy behavior was _safe_.

“Don’t go sprouting poetry about monster guts,” Geralt teased.

“I’ll write a ballad about a witcher’s lack of decency, you’ll see.”

Geralt shook his head—a mistake; it still swirled uncomfortably even though the effects of Kiss were mostly dwindling down. The wound on his middle has started to itch with the distinct almost numbness of when it started to heal properly.

He made it to get out of the tub.

Dandelion was next to him in an instant. “Here, let me help you.”

Geralt let himself be guided away from the water and dressed in a pair of Dandelion’s underclothes. It soured his mood to see himself needing assistance for this, as if he suddenly weren’t a capable witcher anymore. Memories of the Ekhidna’s shrieks plagued his mind for a couple of moments.

“What is it now?” Dandelion asked. Exasperated, Geralt could tell, but not unkind. He had finished dressing Geralt, but kept a steady warm hand on his arm.

“I’m just…” His mind was still too hazy to form too coherent thoughts. To define everything that was happening here and now. Dandelion’s palm was very warm. “I’m just tired,” he said at last.

“So you keep saying. Well, come sit down, then. Eat your food.”

“You misunderstood me.”

“I didn’t. Come on, sit down for a minute. Don’t sigh on me, come on, I’m telling you. Sit down.”

Geralt obeyed. They ate mostly in silence, saved for Dandelion’s blabbering about some gossip or other he heard in another town. Geralt didn’t pay attention. His senses were coming back to normal, accompanied by a bone-crushing exhaustion.

He didn’t really notice finishing his meal, or being dragged towards the bed, or being tucked in. He felt the soft sheets enveloping him, Dandelion’s warmth by his side. The candlelights had been extinguished.

It was instinctive for Geralt to bring Dandelion closer.

The poet chuckled. “Are you enjoying yourself?” Not a complaint.

Geralt said nothing.

Dandelion huffed. “Grumpy bastard,” he said quietly. “Don’t go dying on me, old man. Who am I running to when I get bored with high society’s boorish manners?”

“Your Marchioness is not a good option?” Geralt said, matching Dandelion’s soft tone of voice. “Perhaps find solace in a simpleton next, a farmer or a seamstress.”

Dandelion slapped him lightly on the chest, and then circled his arm around Geralt’s middle. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Say what?”

A kiss on his collarbone. Dandelion tucked himself closer to Geralt’s chest, enveloped by his arm. “Rest, Geralt. Good night.”

Geralt took a deep breath.


End file.
